Somethings Just Stick In Your Mind
by lilyofthedarkvalley
Summary: A clueless Maiar decides to alter history and the outcome of the war by saving Boromir's life. But is sending a suicidal Irish dancer really the right way to go about it? Rated T for utter carnage.
1. Healing and Tentacles

A clueless Maiar decides to alter history and the outcome of the war by saving Boromir's life. But is sending a suicidal Irish dancer really the right way to go about it? Rated T for utter carnage.

"My Lady."

I blink blearily and look around. The world is a blur, an endless spinning blur and there is a man's voice echoing around my head. I feel like I want to throw up. I'm soaked with a warm substance and my forearms burn like white fire.

"My Lady!"

That voice again. I'm cold too, I can feel myself shuddering. Maybe if I just sleep for a bit everything will go away and I can have peace and quiet, just like Kate always said.

Kate. Oh fuck. Kate.

I force my eyelids to open and I push myself to a sitting position. Big mistake. My forearms flare and I feel very woozy. My stomach is doing weird things, constricting and squeezing. I groan and turn to the side and retch but nothing comes up but bile. Sobbing a little I try to lie back but a hard arm catches me. It's wearing some sort of metal which digs into my back through my thin cotton dress. The insistent man is shouting for somebody. Eragon? The dragon guy? My head spins and I try to surrender to the peaceful darkness but the arm shakes me awake.

"You must stay awake or you will die! Do you want to die?" he roars into my ear before shouting for the mysterious Eragon. Do I want to die? Somebody asked me that before. A high, fluting voice. Not like this man. I remember my answer.

"Yes." I moan and try to squeeze my eyes shut.

"No!" He shakes me again. "Have faith!"

"_He stumbled into faith and thought. Oh God, is this all there is?"_ I sing hoarsely, my mind spinning around in circles. I choke and fall silent. There are more footsteps and a different voice starts talking to me. I can't hear the words. They're too quiet, little whispers. He's tying things on the top of arms. Too tight. It hurts. I flinch away. Suddenly I feel the world twist around me and I am surrounded by a warm vice. The man again, not Eragon, is talking in my ear.

"Go away!" I mumble and try to push out of the firm grip. It tightens. My forearms suddenly explode with pain. Somebody is pushing sharp things into the fire and I cry out. I am automatically hushed by the deep voice in my ear.

The anguish seems to go on forever but they won't let me out. What did I do? Suddenly the pain drops to be replaced with a fiery ache.

The voice tells me that something is going to happen, and it will hurt, but I mustn't scream. I shake my head and try to free myself but I am weak and make no effect on this giant clamp.

I smell heat and it is coming close, too close to my mutilated arms. I struggle and try to escape but I can't move.

"_Please_." I beg. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry." Something is shoved in over my tongue. It tastes bad and I try to spit it out but a hand is quickly placed over my mouth. The heat comes closer and finally is pressed firmly onto the mangled pieces that were once my forearms.

Every nerve in my body shoots up in protest and my eyes roll up in my head and finally, the blessed darkness takes over.

Boromir always seemed to be looking for firewood. It wasn't really his express wish that it was his special job but he wasn't going to complain. He bent down to sweep up some likely twigs when an almighty crack shook the forest around him. His body seemed to react without his permission- he span around and drew his sword, adrenalin making him alert and sharp.

His eyes seemed to mislead him.

A figure seemed to appear out of thin air, a flash of water flying in an arc around it as it landed with a loud thump on the forest floor. It lay there, shaking slightly. Boromir held his defensive stance for a moment longer before carefully sloping down to assess the danger.

A tiny woman lay on the ground, her skin ashen. Her lips seemed unusually red and her closed eyes were surrounded by some sort of black dust. Her hair was what interested Boromir the most. It was a mass of black, matted tentacles. It smelled faintly of lavender and enunciated how tiny and fine boned her face was.

"My Lady." He said politely. Something was soaking into his boot. He glanced down and swore. It was dark red blood, curling around the leaves. He looked for the source.

Boromir, son of Denethor, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, from a long line of noble and brave men who were afraid of nothing, flinched and swallowed. Her forearms were a mass of slashes and deep cuts that were welling and spurting with blood.

"My Lady!" he said again. Her eyes fluttered and suddenly opened before she pushed herself to a sitting position. Boromir was shocked. That shouldn't be possible! She groaned and retched, throwing up bile before lying back. He caught her with a gauntleted arm. He'd seen wounds like this before, if she closed her eyes she'd be dead.

"ARAGORN!" he roared, hoping that the Ranger would hear him. "_ARAGORN!" _ He checked his charge, she was trying to sleep again. He shook her awake.

"You must stay awake or you will die! Do you want to die?" he shouted. "ARAGORN!"

Her pale brows furrowed and smoothed.

"Yes." She said quietly. Boromir looked down in shock.

"No!" He shook her again. "Have faith."

She crunched up her face and sang a tiny song before coughing and going quiet. Aragorn finally arrived and took in the scene. Boromir saw his eyes widen in horror before he assumed a healers expression.

"Rip your tunic." He said quietly to Boromir who nodded and quickly tore the bottom half off. Aragorn grabbed two strips and tied them tightly around the top of her arms as tourniquets, talking softly to his patient all the while.

"Boromir, hold her up." Boromir picked her up gently and held her against his chest, feeling her tiny heartbeat and fluttering breaths. Legolas sprinted in with the hobbits and Gimli, who sat on the side looking terrified.

"Make a fire!" Legolas called to them and they sprang to attention. Aragorn began to stitch the multitude of cuts. She cried out in pain and Boromir hushed her, rocking her gently. She was struggling feebly but soon stilled, and put her tentacle head into the crook of his neck. He looked down in surprise. It seemed like hours before the cuts were finally sewn up, hours of pain for this tiny being. They were going to have to cauterise the wounds soon…

"My Lady, we have to do something now. It will hurt a lot, but you must not scream. Yes?"

She began to try and escape, but was too weak and almost fainted with the effort. Legolas passed him a leather thong and he placed it in her mouth. She indignantly spat it out but Legolas caught it and held it between her teeth. Aragorn placed the brand on her arms and she stiffened, her eyes wide, before finally slipping down into unconsciousness.

When Aragorn was finished, Boromir stayed the night by her side, making sure she lived. It would save his life.


	2. Ball Kicking and Irish Dancing

**I forgot the disclaimer last time so here it is: I don't own anything. Disappointing.**

**This is the corrected version, and is slightly different. Think of it as… extended. Please review! I welcome critics and any ideas you may have. Song is Alanis Morrissettes "Crazy". **

She woke up before the hobbits, her eyes slowly fluttering open. She stared up at the sunlight bursting through the trees with confusion. Boromir stared at her, or more likely, her hair. How had it become so tangled?

"Hhhh." She breathed in shock. She had lifted her heavily bandaged arms and was staring at them in horror. She twisted one and winced.

"Ahem. My Lady." Boromir announced himself politely. She squeaked in fear and leapt to her feet. A wave of pain obviously assailed her and she almost collapsed. Boromir lunged to catch her but she span around and seeing his close proximity did, in her eyes the only thing she could.

She kicked him in the balls and ran for it.

I run as fast as I can with very painful arms, bare feet, and a blood stained dress and spiky forest floor. Which, admittedly, ain't fast. I slow and gently lower myself into a ditch under a log. It isn't the most incredible hiding place but it will have to do. I need to figure out what the fuck is going on here. Who was that sword wielding weirdo? I know for certain I'm not in Cork anymore. Or Caark. Depends if you're native. Last thing I remember is grabbing the knife and with cold calculation… Well. The bandages are evidence. Speaking of that, who bandaged my arms? Forgive me, but that guy didn't seem like the healing type. More the I-will -cut -your -small -5ft -nothing -frame -to -pieces -and –eat- your –dreadlocks character. Out of habit, I touch my hair. The familiar rope like substance isn't there. Well it is, but I cannot feel it. I try to wiggle my fingers. Three out of ten respond and I gasp with pain. The rest seemed dead? I try to wiggle my two index fingers. Nothing happens.

Holy Mother of Christ. I must have cut the muscles or something. Leaning my head back against the log I shake with dry sobs. I try not to cry with all my might and it just about works. I want to see what my arms are like so I clumsily unwrap the bandage. It seems like something from a horror film and all I can do is stare in horror at the red, shiny skin interlaced with black stitches reaching almost two centimetres above my once smooth forearm.

"You shouldn't have done that," A quiet but voice deadly murmurs in my ear. I stiffen and slowly turn my head "You shouldn't have done that either." I can see a hand gesture to my arm. It is a new man, not the one that I floored with my boot. His face is similar to the other but with a deeper quality, more a snake than a bear.

He grabs the back of my dress and yanks me out of my hiding place, throwing me to the floor. I yelp as it rides up revealing my bloody underwear. The jolt also sends a fresh wave of pain from my exposed arms. All I can do is lie on the floor shaking like leaf, biting my lip to stop the tears with my dress around my ears and a slowly gathering crowd that I can just see through my half closed eyelids.

Thankfully, the man seems to find this sight a bit too shameful and with a strong hand flicks my dress back over. He grabs my upper arm and props me up against a tree. I shudder and the tears begin to course down my face, silent waterworks carving a dark trail of eyeshadow and eyeliner and who knows what. I feel small, not for the first time. I am a puny little twenty three year old in a country in I don't even know where with swords and knives and shit and all I have are my songs, my dances, no hands and my thin, white cotton dress that barely reaches my knees. I am deader than dead meat which has murdered something. And Kate. Oh God.

Like a rag doll I collapse to the side, and clutch my belly which I cannot feel and weep bitterly for nearly thirty hiccups and sobs.

"I…only…wanted to die. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just…I just…" I hoarsely sob to myself.

"My Lady, are you alright?" a voice asks, hesitantly.

I sit back up and stare through red eyes at my surroundings. I am in a circle of people. I flick my gaze from each of them in confusion. There is the man who I kicked, sitting stiffly and looking balefully at me. I cringe from his gaze and move to the next person. It is a man, so beautiful I am bewildered. His hair is a deep golden and he is dressed in muted browns and greens. I look for the weapons that will certainly be on his person and I'm not disappointed: a quiver filled with fatal arrows, tipped to punch through armour and rip through flesh. I swallow nervously and see his eyes filled with pity. It riles me so I look to his companion, a bearded man, shorter than I am. He probably has dwarfism, I think to myself. He isn't looking at me; he is staring at the huge axe between his calloused palms as if it would burn under his gaze. Then, four tiny boys, almost half my height. I look in shock at them. They are so _small._

"Ahem." The snake clears his throat and I look at him fearfully. "I do not know where you are from, but surely it bad manners even in your homeland to repay the preservers of your life with violence?"

I stare at him, uncomprehending, unable to tear my gaze from the long naked blade at his hip. He follows my look and sighs, running a hand through his dark, grimy hair. He drags it from hip and I feel sick, just imagining how it would feel to have it in my flesh. He lifts it and I hold my useless arms over my face and squeeze my eyes shut. There is a soft thump and I look up. He's only thrown it aside. I blush at my overreacting and examine the ground between.

"We give you healing and you hurt one of us?" he demands, but softer, like you would of an insane person. I suppose that is what I look like. What I am.

"You healed me?" I ask in surprise.

"Yes!" he nods vehemently, and I go even redder.

"I didn't recognize him. All I saw was some casual pervert rapist lunging for me!" I say defensively, "I had no idea where I was and then a random lunatic I don't know comes at me with a long pointy thing. I know what knives and swords can do, don't you forget!" I hold up my scarred arms. The man huffs and looks away. The little men in the background gasp and cough at the mass of scar tissue.

"Alright. Enough with the excuses. Who are you? What are you doing here? And why dishonour our companion Boromir in such a way?" The little dwarf with the axe marches over and stands over me.

"You'd think I'd cut it off..." I mutter mutinously, staring with my eyes wide at the axe.

"YOU GO TOO FAR!" roars the Elf. I leap in shock and stare at him. He's bunched up like a spring. I draw my knees up to my chest.

"WHO ARE YOU?" His hands are clenching at his sides.

"I-I-I'm…" I stutter, thinking at how he was smaller than Pa, but if he took off his belt then… Oh God no please!

"WHO?" he commands, staring me straight in the face. I try to make myself speak but I can't, I'm choking but nothing comes out. It's like it was when I was little, stuttering and rambling until I fell silent and looked at the floor like a pathetic whelp.

"Legolas! Gimli! You shame yourselves!" a little voice pipes up. It is one of the tiny men. He moves in front of them and backs them up. "

"I'm Pippin Took, a hobbit of the Shire. This is my cousin Merry Brandybuck," A tall (relatively) 'hobbit' grins and nods politely at me. "Samwise Gamgee," a protective looking 'hobbit' waves merrily at me, "and Frodo Baggins." A nervous looking 'hobbit' gives a wan smile but his eyes seem happy.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor." The man I kicked announces himself and gives a half bow. I smile nervously and awkwardly get up without using my arms to totter over to him.

"I am very sorry for kicking you. Can we start again?" He nods.

"Right." Says Pippin. "Legolas Greenleaf of the Woodland Realm, Gimli son of Gloin, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Commonly known as Strider." The angry blonde boy, the angry short guy, and the angry snake all give me jerky bows.

"Right. I'm Aoife, of County Caark in Ireland." I say nervously. "I mean Cork. Cork." Dammit. My decidedly Dubliners accent slips whenever I say the word Caark. I mean Cork.

"Caark. I have never heard of it. It is in the south?" asks the dwarf, bewildered.

"Well, where is here?" I ask with interest. "Transylvania, maybe?"

"No. Rohan." Answers Aragorn shortly.

"What continent is that?" I inquire crossing my fingers.

"Continent?"

Shit.

"Um, never mind. Oh and I know you have done a lot for me, but would it be possible to get a pair of trousers? Or anything? I'll dance for you for free if you want?" I offer, hopefully.

The men and the dwarf in the group explode with a lot of shocked but amused spluttering. Having two brothers, I'm guessing I just said something dirty.

"We do not…require the services…of a doxy." Coughs Gimli, his smile nearly concealed in his beard.

"Not like that!" I groan. "Like this. Um, Pippin? Can you clap a rhythm?" The hobbit laughs and shakes his head.

"Not me! Merry is better." He gestures to his cousin and I raise an eyebrow. The hobbit obliges and begins to clap a medium fast beat.

Oh, sometimes showing off is just what you need.

I count to three and begin to ask my feet to tap a weaving rhythm on the ground, humming a song which quickly gains words and I let my boots fall into the familiar patterns.

"_No we're never gonna survive, unless, we get a little crazy_." I sing, feeling the release that dancing always gives me. But as usual, I feel my mind jumping to what I did wrong, making me feel small and stupid and horribly embarrassed. The hobbits enthusiastically clap and I blush and feel tears prick my eyes under the slightly confused stares of the men.

"I have never seen such a dance." Says the blonde man, and I duck my head.

"Can I have some trousers now?" I mumble.

"Of course." Aragorn replies. "Then we shall decide what we are going to do with the little dancing, kicking being we have in here."

I smile in confusion and follow him to find trousers, and looking around at the assembled company, I don't see anyone with trousers who might fit me.

**Thank you for reading! **


	3. Trousers and Fireside Revelations

**Thanks to all who reviewed, you are geniuses. The now corrected version of Chapter 2 will be up in a little bit. **

Legolas didn't want to lend his trousers. Neither did Boromir. Aragorn had no others, the hobbits said they wouldn't fit and Gimli almost threw up at the thought. Aragorn tried with all his might to convince the elf and the stubborn man, but they fiercely argued against it.

"The shame of it! Women wear dresses, men wear trousers. She is like one who, who... Eru! 'Tis unnatural, Aragorn and you know it!" cried Boromir, flushing to the roots of his hair.

"I agree." Legolas said quietly. "She takes away from our cause if she is dressed as a man."

"I have never seen such behaviour of you! This Lady-" Aragorn started, his eyes wide.

"Can I borrow this?" her lilting voice piped up from the packs behind them.

Draped over her upper arms was a long, thick, grey cloak of a rough weave…

"NO!" shouted many voices simultaneously. She dropped it and retreated back several paces, her eyes flicking to each of the Fellowship.

"Yes." Frodo stepped forward into view. "She _may_ borrow it, and you _will_ treat her civilly. But from my perspective, and it may not be the most important, your behaviour towards her has been abysmal."

"Frodo…" Aragorn said, a warning in his voice.

"No, Strider! Listen to me, all of you! Gandalf is _dead_."

Sam, at Frodo's side, flinched, but Frodo ploughed on.

" I, more than anyone wish it were not so, but it is! I cannot change it, and neither can you. Ever since she arrived, all you have done is treat her like 'tis her fault that she was wounded, her fault she owns no trousers, her fault that she, forgive me, is a women among a company of males of many a race! Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, and even you, Strider, though I am ashamed to say it, have used her as a…a sea-wall for your angry sea of frustration that he is gone! Did you listen to nothing my dear friend Pippin said?" Frodo's eyes were blazing as his clear voice rose up over the chagrined company.

Boromir felt heat rise up his cheeks as he heard the young hobbit's words.

"Please, Aoife, wear Gandalf's cloak. He would have been delighted to see it come to such a use. The girl timidly nodded and slipped it around her. It swamped her little figure but the warmth was obviously greatly appreciated.

"Frodo?" she asked quietly. "I'm sorry for…um…prying, but who is Gandalf?"

A tiny sigh of grief swept through the assembled.

"He was a great man…wizard… whose wisdom was greatly appreciated in these dark times." Aragorn answered honestly. The girl nodded as she digested this piece of information. Aragorn turned to the company, opening his mouth, when the girl's accent penetrated the air again.

"I have one more question. Legolas, he said "cause". What cause? And correct me if I'm wrong, but is it normal for small bunch of people such as you to be wandering the wilderness?"

Several eyebrows were raised at Legolas, who gave a sheepish smile at his lapse in tongue control. It was Aragorn who answered for the company again.

"You are sharp, my Lady. You have shown ignorance of this land, how much do you know?"

"Nothing. I have no clue where we are, and have no sense of geography." She grinned. "I know more about trousers."

This coaxed a reluctant smile, and many noticed how stiff their face muscles were. Aragorn lowered his voice.

"Well. You do not need the specifics, but a great force of darkness, filled with unnatural beasts, has come from the East and now the West, too. Frodo carries a great treasure, which, if destroyed, removes the root of this abomination sweeping the land. This is our cause. I have not yet thought of where we could take you; give me time tonight to reflect. Does this answer your query?"

Aoife bowed her head and nodded, her brow furrowed, and stood back.

"Mellon nin, we stop tonight?" Legolas said in surprise, "but the Orcs, and we have only just rested…"

"I understand this, but I believe this is the last chance we will have to sleep and recover our strength for a while. Please, all of you take advantage of it."

So, instead of packing away the camp as they were accustomed to, they made themselves comfortable. Gimli and Aragorn tended to their weapons while Legolas fletched arrows. The hobbits had a go at a bit of sparring, fighting as quietly as they could. Afternoon turned to evening, evening to night and soon everyone was bedding down, fearful for what the morning would bring. Boromir sat by the fire, waiting for his turn to watch.

Boromir's thoughts, as usual when left unattended, turned to the Ring. If only he was the bearer, he could return home to The White City. He could just envision the pride in his father's face, the joy in Faramir's, the admiration of all, as he, The Ringbearer was triumphant. They would call him Boromir, Saviour of all that was nearly lost and…

"May I sit here?" her voice came from behind him. Boromir jumped, and sternly told himself off. If that had been an Orc, he would have been dead.

"Of course." Boromir replied. His voice seemed uneasy even to him. If she knew his mind, 'twould be very uncomfortable.

She sat down with a thump, her forearms still useless. They sat together, staring at the flames. Boromir cleared his throat, and she turned to him, her expression inquiring.

"Oh. My throat is just…" He gestured with one hand, and jumped again as her pale hand came out and touched the horn by his side. She traced the patterns and Boromir swallowed his horror at the scars on her arms. They would never fade, he knew that.

"It is so beautiful." She said, obviously amazed.

Boromir chuckled. "'Tis the Horn of Gondor."

"Can you play it?" she asked wistfully. Boromir snorted.

"No."

"Why do you have it then?" she asked. So many questions! Womanly wiles, they call it.

"So, if I am ever in trouble, I can blow it. Then I will be given aid." They became silent for a moment and Boromir's eyes flicked to the sleeping figure of Frodo. 'Twould be so _easy…_

"Aragorn says that there will be a fight tomorrow. Do you think so?" her voice broke the cool night air again. Eru!

"Do you never stay quiet?" Boromir said in exasperation, shooting her a glare out of the corner of his eye.

"Sorry." She didn't sound repentant, one little bit. But,at least, she would shut up now, and Boromir could be left to his thoughts but…

"Do you, though?"

"Yes, I do! Aragorn has given me the joyful task of making sure _you _survive. So it doesn't matter that you cannot wield anything, as long as you stay out of my way! I heard you begging the hobbits for information earlier. Have you no more questions?" Boromir exploded in a fierce whisper.

"One more."

Boromir put his face in his hands and groaned. This was giving him a headache.

"You want it. The treasure, I mean. The one Frodo has."

Boromir looked at her, his eyes wide in fear.

"What?" He could barely form the words.

"Your eyes go to him every other second, you are non-committal with all your answers, you are angry over the smallest thing. Every moment to yourself you stare at the floor, the fire, whatever, with a strange look in your eye." She stared at him, her gaze seemed to pin him where he was. He was sweating gently. He could not lie, she would know, of this he was sure.

"Aragorn was…right. You are sharp. It is true, I much desire this thing." Boromir's voice was hoarse and he fumbled with the straps on his bracers, if nothing else to give him something to do.

"Frodo, he said, well, it was very evil. I don't think you should want it as you do." She said, gently, stilling his hands with a touch, again reminding him of her scars.

"No."

Legolas walked back into the camp, and gestured to Boromir. He got up and dusted himself off, before beginning his watch, slowly walking the perimeter. He could see her small figure silhouetted against the fire and her words whirled round and round in his head. He knew nothing anymore, it seemed.


	4. Amon Hen

I know, I know. I'm sorry. Thanks to Silver Moon for catching my language!

"Frodo, Sam! Take a boat!" Aragorn's voice was desperate as his sword clanged with another steel blade from the fires of Isengard. The hobbits obeyed fearfully, their postures determined as they ran to one of the elven boats, shoving it out into the river.

The orcs flowed down the hill, like a brown river of filth. Their guttural roars and bestial expressions were so raw and primitive, but Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn stood their ground, cutting them down.

But it was Boromir who inspired bravery among all who saw him. Roaring his defiance he tore into the orcs, sometimes overcoming two or three at a time, inflicting horrific wounds with his far reaching sword. His grey eyes burned with bloodlust and his helmet glinted in the morning sunshine, sending peals of blinding light into the surrounding woods. For a moment, he looked as the Kings of Old, a timeless warrior.

The figure beside him was as opposite as possible. She cowered behind the shield she could barely lift, sticking as close as she could to her protector without being impaled on his sword. Her knees shook, making the horn at her side tremble. If an abomination came too close she squeaked in fear and hefted the shield that was attached to her upper arms above her face, squeezing her eyes shut. The long grey cloak tripped her up at every opportunity and she nearly killed Boromir when she fell into him just as an orc's sword swung around. It was only his quick thinking that stopped his side being cleaved from waist to navel.

But as brave as Boromir was he couldn't fight them all.

"Blow the horn!" he cried to Aoife, who nodded jerkily and dropped her shield in confusion, groping for the horn on her hip, given to her as a last resort for protection by an extremely reluctant Heir. The clear sound filled the surrounding woodland.

"Again!" said Boromir, blocking a vicious stab from the orc beside him. Aoife complied and the silver tipped horn sings for help once again.

Through the trees he could hear the sound of his companions trying to reach him and then suddenly he heard two familiar voices pop up behind.

"Got sidetracked?" Aoife asked Merry and Pippen as they joined her cowering against the tree behind their fearsome warrior, who was now limping from a slight wound to his thigh.

"BOROMIR! GET OUT THE WAY!" Aoife screamed without warning, her voice hollowed with absolute terror. Boromir's world spun and he saw the deadly bolt winging its way towards him, the sneer of the sender flying with it.

XXXXXXXXXX

He twists to me, and there is a lull in the skirmish. His grey eyes meet mine with agony, his neck spattered with wine red blood, such a contrast to the black slimy blood of the things around him.

I faintly hear Merry and Pippin shouting their outrage as they are swept up by two ginormous monsters. But all I can feel is the pain of the man in front of me. My heart swells with grief and I turn, brushing my hand along his belt and begin to sprint. My legs pump and I swerve through the trees, ducking the battle rage of the abominations around me, though it is as if they cannot see me. Their eyes look through me, and I am as a rock in the river, which parts the murky brown flow. I see Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rush past me to Boromir's side, but I keep going with my mission. There is something in the back of my mind, which is pure as a wine glass when you hit it. My actions seem to correspond with the rise and fall of the note, or is it the other way round? Anyway, it spurs me on to my goal and I run faster, my arms all but forgotten.

The thing is big, I can see its filth encrusted muscles rippling as it draws another arrow. My hand readjusts on the knife that I grabbed from Boromir's belt as I ran past. I look down; the archer still hasn't seen me, thank the Lord. If I was less focused, I probably would have dwelled on the oddness of that. I suddenly realise the dagger that two of my fingers hold is the exact miniature of Boromir's sword.

The psychiatrist once said that I could resolve my problems if I found a purpose in my life.

My purpose is to kill the thing that is killing Boromir. I watch the cruel malice of its ugly countenance twist as it draws another arrow. I slip silently up to it, my loathing and hatred and… something else transforming me into a cold-blooded killer. It is totally focused on the kill. So am I.

And as I creep up towards the ugly beast I feel a presence. A cool touch on my burning forearms, guiding my hands. A firm pressure on my legs, making me crouch, my feet making no sound on the leafy floor. A sharp guidance in my head, showing me again and again what I must do.

I bring the knife up and make up for my lack of strength with strategy and stab it into his hand, slitting a long line. The arrow twangs to the ground as the beast roars in pain. It brings the long bow around and slams it into my stomach. I am knocked off my feet but the presence will not let me stop there and I leap up again, my mouth filling with blood. I shove the knife into his other wrist and he howls. This time the bow slams into my head.

Boromir watched from his vantage point, propped up against a tree. The cold steel of the arrow in his chest took up all rational and irrational thought though it did not stop him from seeing. His weak, talkative, confusing charge was totally transformed. She held the pose of a seasoned warrior, her hand held up before her face, her grip on the knife keeping it firmly parallel to herself. Her feet moved quickly, and suddenly the knife flashed and it dug deep into the back of the beast's hand. The arrow meant for him fell to the floor and the orc howled, before vindictively swinging its bow into her unprotected stomach. She was not easily felled, however, and the knife was wielded again. The beast grabbed the wood with both hands and swung with all its 8ft strength. The little girl flew ten paces and was still.

She saw that wood flexing with the strength of the abomination. She saw it and she stopped it. She paid the price. She broke its hands, and he broke her spirit as he howled his victory with the rough bonds shoved on her marred wrists, the promised hell.

He saw it too, with an arrow in his chest. He saw it and wept for redemption of his failure. He understood her scars then, even if he did not see it.


End file.
